


Per verba de praesenti

by lightningwaltz



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, First Time, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Laughter During Sex, Porn With Plot, actually a betrothal but almost as legally binding as a marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: Bernadetta tiptoes over so that her potential guest can’t hear the creak of wood panelings and guess at her movements. She rests her head against the door.“Yes? Who is it?”
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Per verba de praesenti

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seasaltmemories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltmemories/gifts).



> Hello seasaltmemories!
> 
> I loved your prompt, particularly your ideas regarding an arranged marriage AU. I've been reading a lot of Tudor era biographies lately, and sometimes marriage betrothals/pre-contracts were treated as basically as serious as out and out marriage (well depending on the context.) I wanted to play around with that idea and have Bernadetta and Ferdinand at Garreg Mach and seen as being seen (by themselves and the rest of their classmates) as good as married. I also set this a few weeks after Jeralt's death because I've always liked how canonically that had Bernadetta leaving her room for a little bit. I thought it some hurt/comfort would be a good catalyst for the two of them acting on their attraction to/curiosity about each other, as well.

A few days after Jeralt’s funeral, there’s a tentative knock at Bernadetta’s door. She doesn’t open it, of course. Not immediately.

The fact remained that she had considered doing so, though, and that seemed significant. All at once, the solitude of her room feels especially stuffy, like she’s wearing a dress made of uncomfortable fabric. 

Bernadetta tiptoes over so that her potential guest can’t hear the creak of wood panelings and guess at her movements. She rests her head against the door. 

“Yes? Who is it?” 

“It’s Ferdinand.” This is entirely expected, somehow. 

Her hand reaches out - seemingly without Bernadetta’s permission - and turns the handle. She opens the door just enough to get a look at Ferdinand’s eyes, and immediately regrets it. It would be easier if her betrothed appeared anguished, somehow. Bernadetta had seen enough of life to know that she’s even more useless than usual in the face of someone else’s grief. She’d have had no expectations for herself in such a circumstance. 

Ferdinand doesn’t look like he’s grieving, though. He looks the way he did the one time she’s seen a horse toss him to the side. A person would look this way if they stepped outside and found the sky at the feet, and the ground above their head. 

“How can I help you?” She asks. Normally, when she does this, her entire body tenses. Ready to flee. Not so, today. 

To her surprise, he thrusts a small bouquet of flowers through the space between the door and the door frame. The petals are a lovely riot of purple, pink, and red. Imports, most likely, from a distant kingdom that dwells in perpetual summer.

“I went to the market this morning, and I attempted to find flowers to place on Professor Jeralt’s grave. It was quite difficult to find any flowers for sale, and after I purchased these I recalled that these are flowers meant for a wedding. All the flowers more appropriate for death had already been purchased. We even saw them on display during Professor Jeralt’s funeral. However, I barely remember my trip to the market. It is as though I wandered in an enchanted fog the entire time.”

Bernadetta listens to this rambling, slightly frantic monologue, unable to decipher what he wants. She doesn’t think he knows what he wants, either. Usually this is a good recipe for Bernadetta wanting to be alone again, but that isn't the case right now.

These exact flowers had been in season when she and Ferdinand had been promised to one another five or so years ago. During that betrothal ceremony, she had exchanged vows with a man meant to be a proxy for Ferdinand von Aegir. With the distance of time, she remembers that the stand-in had been almost a child himself. One of her father’s squires. He’d had a terrible look of concentration on his face, like he was deathly afraid of saying the wrong vows. Bernadetta had stared at the flowers on the altar, noting that dew still clung to some of the petals. She has a keen memory of that sight, and absolutely no memories of speaking aloud. She must have stated her vows correctly, though, because no punishment had been forthcoming, and the betrothal had become a matter of record. 

After, she’d signed the contract and it had been dispatched to Ferdinand’s family. Once in his domain he, presumably, had gone through the same betrothal ceremony as Bernadetta. 

All that feels so far away, now. She opens the door a little more, and ends up grabbing onto the bouquet. Breezes carry in the scents of winter, but now her room smells like spring. Sensory details of two seasons war together, and this only adds to the strangeness of this day. 

“What do you want from me?” On a normal week, her voice would pitch up into a wail. Today she feels quiet, though. Like the plants waiting beneath the soil, waiting for warmer days to reemerge. 

“I thought - well.” Ferdinand grabs the side of his own face. “I have seen you knitting those flowers. I thought that, perhaps, you could sew some for Jeralt’s grave.”

Ahhh. She wonders if Ferdinand realized that carnivorous plants made up the majority of her art projects. She doubts that professor Byleth (or, for that matter, professor Jeralt) would mind such a tribute, but Ferdinand might. 

“It’s not a terrible idea,” she begins, remembering another impediment. “However, there’s a sign about offerings that can be made at the Garreg Mach graveyard and … well. They have to be made of material that can return to the earth easily. Flowers and plants and such. Not yarn.”

Ferdinand’s shoulders slump. His people back home most likely harry him out of poor posture in regular times, but these are not regular times. And Bernadetta has always liked poses that allow her to hide, so she understands. 

She sets the bouquet to the side. This time she’s the one who reaches past the door, even though she doesn’t open it further. Not by an inch. He jumps a little when she takes his hand, and it’s probably because her fingers are warm after he’s been outside for so long. His palm is icy cold. He’s forgotten to put gloves on. 

Bernadetta considers his reaction for a little while longer and wonders if he’s surprised for another reason. As a rule, they do not hold hands. 

News of their betrothal had done its rounds through Garreg Mach’s rumor mill during their earliest weeks here. However, they were far from the only affianced nobles on campus. Likewise, some from the merchant class were in a similar predicament. Still, people sometimes looked at them and giggled askance as though Ferdinand and Bernadetta might put on a show of marriage for them all. 

Somehow, the two of them had settled into a routine. They would go to his or her room when others were sure to be watching … and drink tea without talking. Sometimes they’d even go about sharing tight-lipped kisses in public, mostly to stave off the gossip that they couldn’t stand each other. Bernadetta is often surprised at her own non-reaction to this compromise. However, she’s recently had to stitch up his wounds during a particularly grueling skirmish. Somehow that had seemed much more intimate than pressing chapped lips together for half of a second. Kissing had always seemed so much more incredible in all of her delightfully melodramatic reading material. 

Bernadetta revises this opinion right now, though, when Ferdinand kisses the back of her knuckles and then bows his head over her hand. 

His hands press against either side of her palm, now. He looks more like a knight swearing fealty to a queen than a bridegroom doing obeisance to his wife. He has beautiful wrists, and unexpected calluses from their work. Bernadetta’s stomach turns over in a wonderful way, and she tries to yell at herself for experiencing delight during such a dreadful time. 

“There is so little we can do for our professor’s grief,” Ferdindand says at last.

“There’s nothing we can do for that,” Bernadetta agrees, not unkindly. “We could go outside and make a wreath for Jeralt, though.”

*

In the end, they do just that. They venture into the bucolic wooded area just behind the classrooms. There are no flowers in bloom, but there are evergreen pines, pine cones, and jewel-red holly. 

After they’ve gathered enough for their purposes, they return to Bernadetta’s room. The last time Ferdinand had been in here, he’d accidentally discovered her series of novels about a woman being seduced by a tree spirit. There had been a number of helpful illustrations, and Ferdinand had blushed well before he’d fully realized what he had been seeing. Bernadetta had proceeded to kick him out and beat herself up for allowing anyone into her room, even if it had been for a pleasant chat and some tea. 

All that had happened mere weeks ago, but that seems like the events of a previous century. 

They barely speak as they work, as though they are master craftsmen who have done this exact task many a time. Bernadetta is pleased that she doesn’t have to tell Ferdinand anything about weaving branches together. If anything, he seems to take on the bulk of the work (possibly out of guilt for interfering with her day? He _would_ worry over something like that.) 

Once they are done, they make their way to Jeralt’s burial site.

For her part, she could never disdain a graveyard. In fact, they were her preferred places to visit whenever she found herself craving wind and sunshine. It didn’t matter if she happened to be at home or at her family’s ancestral manor; most people disdained graveyards unless they were there on official business. Not so Bernadetta. Back home, she would often read under the expansive shadow of one particularly towering monument. The ancestor within was some five hundred years dead and unlikely to mind her company. 

It was true that there was a certain quality to the air in graveyards. Breezes were muted, and silence blanketed the grounds. There was nothing particularly stifling about it. In fact, it allowed her thoughts to connect more freely. 

The recent death of Jeralt, however, had forced her to reconsider the quality of this kind of silence, though. 

It would be so easy to get lost in it. 

Bernadetta reaches for Ferdinand’s hand, grappling in the space between their bodies until their fingers connect. He gently pulls her in closer until he can wrap an arm around her back. They settle against each other far too comfortably. 

The two of them speak their words commemorating Jeralt and then it’s all over. It’s all done so quickly.

After, they make their way back to her room. The two of them don’t discuss their destination exactly, but somehow their feet seem to know. Soon enough they’re in the exact same position as before; staring at each other through the space left by a barely open door. Bernadetta is on one side of the divide and Ferdinand is on the other. 

“Thank you. This afternoon I felt so lost. If I hadn’t come to you I might have ended up wandering around until sunset.” 

“I didn’t do that much for you, Ferdinand.”

“No, please do not sell yourself short. You did a great deal.”

He sounds like he means it. In a way, that’s a never ending gift from Ferdinand. She never has to doubt his sincerity. 

Bernadetta opens the door a fraction more. Just enough so that she can lean forward and press her lips to his. Until now, kissing has been an act of duty for the two of them. Bernadetta wants to remind Ferdinand that he doesn’t owe anything to her, not really, and this suffices better than words. Their impending marriage is a contract between their fathers. It’s an economic arrangement. As for the wreath… well. Anyone in their class probably would have helped him in a similar way. 

This time the kiss lingers, though. 

At first it’s Bernadetta’s fault. This kiss is rougher than their previous endeavors, and she’s so startled by her own intensity that she fixates on it for a bit. 

But then it’s Ferdinand’s fault. His hands cup the back of her head, and it becomes easier to sway up into him. This is not a reserved, perfunctory sort of kiss. Her eyes are shut, and their lips are moving together, again and again. Bernadetta is fiercely aware of the softness of the skin over her lips, particularly in this dry winter air. 

People might be watching.

People most likely _are_ watching.

It’s always bothered Bernadetta in the past, but only in that poisonous, amorphous way that she fears all attention. Her objection now has nothing to do with fear. Rather, she doesn’t want anyone to name this kiss with Ferdinand. For years, now, people have tried to name this relationship (and all that it entails) for her. Today she wants to seek comfort and explore temptation, and she wants to do so without the burden of labels. 

She reaches out, bunches her fingers into Ferdinand’s shirt and reels him in. 

This is the first time she’s spontaneously invited anyone into her room. Over time she’s been subjected to scheduled meetings. She’s never done anything like this before, though. To quell her own rising alarm, she shoves Ferdinand up against the newly closed door. 

“Bernadetta?”

“Shhh…” She presses her fingers against his lips. 

They resume kissing, and she wonders if Ferdinand senses that an ill-timed question could break the strange spell she’s found herself in. She still has no interest in talking, and every interest in resuming the kind of kissing they had begun outside. Then they go even further. His tongue slips against hers, sliding further into her mouth when she gasps. The sensation seems silly at first, but she quickly grows dizzy on it; the strangeness, the closeness, the sheer familiarity of it all. She could do this for hours, and maybe they do. It’s certainly darker outside when Bernadetta becomes more aware of things. The golden, sunset light streams in through the windows and burnishes Ferdinand’s hair. 

Both of his arms wrap around her back, and she’s distantly aware of the way her breasts are pressed up against his chest. There are layers of clothing between the two of them right now, but he must be aware of it, too. Bernadetta can only kiss back harder. At first she’s content with gripping onto his hips, but then her hands wander up and down his sides.

_I’m probably leaving wrinkles on his shirt._

She imagines accidentally tearing one of the buttons free. It would roll into some obscure corner of the room, never to be found again. _If_ she managed to locate it, she’d feel honor-bound to repair his shirt. And it was always a pain to sew buttons back into place. 

Alright then. Clothing really had become a burden by this point. 

She slides one of her hands across, fumbling with his belt. His hand closes over her wrist, stopping her. 

“What are you doing?”

Her face is so hot he probably can feel it. He could probably feel it even if they were on opposite sides of the room, rather than face-to-face, his breaths dancing over her lips. 

“I’m sorry, I should have asked.” 

“Did you want to go to bed?”

Bernadetta almost laughs in a breathless sort of way. Put in such coy terms, it makes her picture the two of them tucked together for some idyllic nap. Like two creatures cozily waiting for the spring together. Then her laughter dies because she can’t really imagine doing that with anyone, and yet it seems possible with Ferdinand. 

“Yes. You’ve _seen_ my books.” She's timid but not naive, and she has a feeling she knows what she will like. 

Ferdinand blinks, rapidly. He has lovely eyelashes, actually. This close, Bernadetta can truly appreciate that.

“I have seen _one_ of your books. I must warn you that my manhood is not made of vines.”

Bernadetta groans, and not from delight. It’s nearly enough to call the whole thing off. Instead, she starts laughing again, more genuinely this time. With the whole campus in mourning, it’s a truly inconvenient time for laughter. And yet the act of it seems to purify something that had stagnated in her bones long ago. Maybe even years and years ago, before she had heard his name. 

“Don’t tease me,” she says, at least, leading him further into the bed. 

He sits on the edge of her bed, absently placing his hands on either side of her waist. It’s as though - now that permission has been granted - his body naturally wants to adhere to hers. 

“You must have read the contract,” he says, and he pulls his hands away as if burned. “If we have sex before the wedding, it will be much harder for you to annul the pre-contract. Legally, this would be almost as binding with a marriage ceremony. I do not want that for you.” 

Bernadetta had read through the documents. Of course she had. Something about what he said nagged at her, like she read ancient documents and was sure she should be able to translate a certain phrase. 

“You think I want to annul the pre-contract?” It was too hard - even for Bernadetta - to assume from his words that his primary objective was being able to dissolve the relationship for himself. 

“You have many reasons to be unhappy with it. Rumors did reach our estates about your father being very … insistent that it had to happen.”

In all this time everyone had described their future marriage as an inevitability. Her parents. The representatives for Ferdindant’s parents. Her sovereign, and other classmates. And yet, there’s Ferdinand, painting the possibility for another future. 

Bernadetta stares down at the floor. Normally this would when she would be staring holes into her shoes. Instead, she’s met with the sight of Ferdindand’s knees. Gingerly, she sits down on them, marveling at the solidness of his thighs against her own. 

“When I started to get you out of your clothes, I wasn’t really thinking about marriages or contracts…”

“No?” His hands are on her shoulders now, keeping her upright. 

“I just wanted to have a moment that was just … _mine._ Do you ever feel that way? Do you want something to be just yours?” 

It sounds stupid. It’s not like any of the (admittedly overly wordy) speeches that the heroines of her books might make. Ferdinand seems to understand, though. He nods slowly when she meets his eyes. 

“That makes sense to me.” 

His hands still smell like pine. Bernadetta focuses on this as he undresses her. Maybe her fingers give off the same scent as she does the same for him. It commingles with the sweet scent from the neglected bouquet. They’ll probably have to put that in a vase, but Bernadetta’s thoughts aren’t on that. She’s much more interested in getting naked, even though it’s a bit awkward in someone’s else’s lap.

At first his fingers skim over her skin, barely touching her. It’s a mere phantom of a presence, like fog evaporating from one’s skin the second they step into the sunlight. And yet, it’s galvanizing to have the hands of someone else touching her body. So many of her nerves light up at the unpredictability of it all. Soon enough she’s gasping, even though they’ve barely done anything at all. She buries her face in the area where his shoulder and neck meet. His arms encircle her strongly, then, and she gasps. 

Bernadetta has been so hungry for touch, all this time. She’s just wanted it to happen on her terms. She bites his skin, even though she’s never been terribly interested in stories about vampires. His moan is quiet, but it rumbles through her frame. 

“Can you raise your head again?” 

“Oh sure.”

Ferdinand continues to support her as his lips wander down her throat, her collarbone, all the way to one of her breasts. She has no time to think about whether they’re a pleasing sight. Instead, he sucks on one of her nipples, while massaging the other. She arches her back, too pleasantly startled to care about anything but sensation. 

She reaches between their bodies, managing to find his cock quickly enough. Her face burns as she mentally narrates her actions to herself, drawing on wisdom gleaned from years’ worth of smutty books. Bernadetta’s furtive education must have served her well in some respects, though. Soon enough she has him moaning unabashedly.

“How should I touch you in turn?” Ferdinand asks, after a while. It’s hard to imagine that it’s a cold day just beyond the confines of this room. His hair has become rumpled, and strands stick to sweat on his forehead. 

“Um, well…” Bernadetta can’t quite bring herself to say it. But she can demonstrate. 

They end up lying down in bed together, as she guides his hand between her legs. He’s mumbling something about how _‘of course he knows what the clitoris is, but some further instruction would be nice’_ and she laughs while letting his words wash over her. Instead, she presses his fingers where they need to go. And Ferdindand… he’s always been a fast learner. Always so eager to show what he's capable of accomplishing.

And pleasure takes on a different quality when induced by someone else. 

Bernadetta should probably be flustered by the way she's wet enough to soaks his fingers, or the scent of her pleasure joins with the scents of pine and flowers. She can’t care though. Not with the way each of Ferdinand’s movements make her gasp and want to beg for more. One of her feet ends up slamming against the wall, and it startles them into laughter. She can’t be embarrassed about that either. She's discovering that pleasure has wiping away all of her nerves for the moment. It's like sweeping snow off of a monument to see the work of art below

After an eternity of _so close, almost there, what if this goes on forever_ an orgasms crests through Bernadetta. She covers her mouth, because the walls here are thinner than they ought to be, and this moment is _hers_. This moment is _theirs._ No one else is allowed to have it.

"If this was our wedding ceremony, we'd have all those guests standing outside our door. Listening." This is normally a thought Bernadetta would keep to herself. However, that's impossible right. She's still floating back down into her body, still feeling the after-shocks of pleasure. 

"Until fifty years ago, it was required to watch the consummation. Did you know that?" Ferdinand looks like he's trying to conjure up a look of distaste, but he keeps getting distracted by the sight of Bernadetta's body. He'll still hard, of course.

Bernadetta had known about witnessing the consummation of a marriage. That sort of thing is a common trope in some romantic novels, and she had always thrown them to the side in a panic whenever she realized the book would depict that scenario.

She rolls on top of Ferdinand, drawing a strange amount of power from the delighted gasp that shudders through his body.

"It's better this way, right? It''s not after an endless reception. There are no eavesdroppers." Somehow the former seems worse than the latter. Bernadetta has always been queasy at the thought of eating cake with people looking at her, sizing her up, knowing full well she would have sex that night. There would be people in corners gossiping about whether she pleased her bridegroom.

Not so today. Today, she and Ferdinand had only been spied on by the trees in the forest, and maybe a few stray students. There's no one here at all as Ferdinands hands slide up her back, before coming back down to caress her sides. Her body is waking up again.

"I will guard my memories of this with my life." It's such a weird thing to say. It's such a thoroughly Ferdinand thing to say.

Bernadetta rises up a little, just so she can start guiding him into her. He inhales sharply when he first starts to breach her, and he grabs the side of her face.

"Really? Are you certain?"

Bernadetta can't answer at first. She's too distracted by the sensation of slowing sliding down onto Ferdinand. It’s an awkward, aching sort of stretch but part of her likes it in its strangeness. 

"Yes, I'm certain." And Bernadetta isn't certain very often. That's almost as strange and different as sex.

The strangeness melts away, though, as they settle into a rhythm that pleases them both. Bernadetta glories in the way he stares up at her in almost sacrilegious reverence. She’s amazed that they’ve both fumbled their way into joy and comfort in spite of everything. 

*

After they finish, they do end up dozing off together. It’s as comfortable as Bernadetta had expected. 

She wakes up to Ferdinand running an errant petal over her face. On their wedding day, they can expect to be led to a bed filled with flower petals, as is the custom. 

She prefers this, instead. 

“We probably should go to the dining hall before it closes,” he says. “As loathe as I am to leave this bed.” 

“You performed well, despite having the genitalia of a mere human.” Bernadetta says this before her nerves fail her. Ferdinand stares until he remembers, and then he laughingly pulls her into a hug.

After they get dressed, she slips his hand into his. They remain like that during the entire walk across campus. Something has changed between them, and it’s not something that could be noted down in a treaty or a contract.


End file.
